


Soil, Soil

by casey-bee (vands88)



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Gen, M/M, No Spoilers, Pre-Slash, Wordcount: 100-1.000
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-08
Updated: 2013-09-08
Packaged: 2017-12-26 01:15:07
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 747
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/959856
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vands88/pseuds/casey-bee
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John waits up all night waiting for a phonecall from Sherlock as evidence that he is still alive. Spoiler free.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Soil, Soil

**Author's Note:**

> So, funny story. I found this on my computer. It is two years old. I have no idea how I intended to finish it so if it seems rushed that's because I can't remember what I had planned.   
> Also, I'm just assuming I wrote it because:  
> a) too many bloody adverbs to belong to anyone else  
> b) was saved under a Tegan & Sara song title  
> c) was on my hard drive  
> Odds are that I wrote it (drunk I'm guessing), but if I have accidentally stolen from you and I was meant to beta this thing instead, er, two years ago, then I'm sorry and you really should have picked a faster beta.

 

  
_Oh and I'm feeling_   
_Directionless yes_   
_But that's to be expected_   
_And I know that best_   
_And in creeps the morning_   
_And another day's lost_   
_You've just written wondering_   
_And I reply fast_   
_All you need to save me_   
_All you need to save me_   
_Call (call)_   
_And I'll be curled on the floor_   
_Hiding out from it all_   
_And I won't take any other call_   


_-_

John cradled his phone in his sweaty palms. His shaky and irregular breathing echoed around the empty house; deafening.

_Call me_ , he thought, over and over like a mantra.

Sherlock had been not a foot ahead of him earlier as they chased a criminal through Soho (an aptly named art thief called “Rich”; long story). But then John had turned a corner and had been engulfed in a stream of students from a pub; loud and boisterous and not even caring that they had caused John to lose not only a high-profile criminal but also the intrinsically more dangerous detective, Sherlock Holmes.

John had spent two hours searching for him, or getting lost more like, in the dark alleys behind far-too-expensive nightclubs. But no one had seen a tall, impressive, middle-class prick parting the seas of clubbers in a long black coat, and come three in the morning, John wound up going home. Unable to sleep of course, but at least warm, while he waited for a sign that the madman he lived with was still actually alive.

Three hours later as the sun was rising over London; John had lost all sense of direction and time and anything at all concrete. He must have dozed off because he awoke to a “beep beep” sounding from the phone still clutched in his hands. His heart leapt through his grogginess at the anticipation of a message from Sherlock, but the disappointment at seeing “low battery” flash menacingly across the screen was nearly enough for John to send the phone flying.

John sighed, and stretched his back as he gingerly stood up from the floor. He plugged his phone in on the way to the kitchen, and John made himself a cuppa as that was what you did at six in the morning when your friend was still missing from the night before.

John watched the stream from his mug rise in swirls and fade into the yellow ambiance of the early morning; in his sleepy state, he could almost imagine the clouds forming over his head. That was certainly what it felt like at least, not warm clouds of tea though; cold, heavy, thunderstorms. John wondered if Sherlock even knew what he put him through every time he disappeared.

_Call me_ , he thought. John then absently typed out another text message to his friend, “you complete prick. if you’ve gone and got yourself killed, I will kill you.” and then, “wait, that made no sense – just call me so I know you’re ok? please?” and then, “the sleep deprivation is due to you btw, I want you to know that.”

The screen in front of John’s eyes blurred with tiredness. He needed sleep. He stifled a yawn and told himself not to worry; Sherlock was probably fine. Sherlock probably arrested the guy, his phone probably just slipped out of his pocket and he hadn’t realised because he got distracted by some new evidence on the way home...yes, Sherlock was probably fine.

John rinsed out his mug in a daze and felt his way back to the sofa, cradling his phone close to his chest and allowing himself to rest his eyes – just for a little while.

John may have registered in between dreams much later, the itchiness of a wool blanket being comfortingly placed over him. He may have heard the voice of a regretful man whispering against his cheek. But it wasn’t until he awoke that he found his phone placed on the table beside him with a handwritten apology folded neatly underneath:

_success! lestrade has him.  
lost phone in thames. probably won’t happen again._

John sighed, knowing without a doubt that it probably would happen again. And that he would probably forgive him then as well. It truly was remarkable that Sherlock could apologise without once saying “sorry”.

His phone alerted him to a new message. John rubbed the sleep from his eyes and read the screen:

_Good, you’re awake. Yes, I got a new phone. Come upstairs. We have case files to sort. SH_

Business as usual then. 


End file.
